Rodeo
by Reincarnated Poet
Summary: Silent tears fall from her eyes and she prays. She’s not sure who she’s praying to anymore. Her god? Maybe. His? Possibly. She’s not quite sure who will get the job done any longer. Not related to Songs to the Grave


Reincarnated Poet: Hello my freaky darlings, this is just a one shot, it doesn't belong to the series Songs to the Grave, but it was spinning around in my head. It's based loosely upon Garth Brooks's song Rodeo, which I have included after the fiction. I hope it is fairly clear who the story is about, and that you are able to get what I was trying to work across. Thanks for reading!

~R.P.~

She can't help but stare as he stares back. His eyes used to be a calm chocolate, always watching her with love and protection shining through. Lately, she'd seen less and less of those emotions and more and more of the exact opposite. He would watch her, eyes catching her every movement, but not to protect or appreciate. She'd catch that odd stare. One that spoke of unease and restlessness. One that told her what was about to happen.

He'd stretch a bit further in the morning, popping his back and neck and knuckles. The puncture wounds on his back were finally healed nicely and replaced with shiny white scars. That pulled muscle in his shoulder had long ago stopped plaguing his movements.

Silent tears fall from her eyes and she prays. She's not sure who she's praying to anymore. Her god? Maybe. His? Possibly. She's not quite sure who will get the job done any longer. She's made wagers and agreements, promises and trades. Wasn't it just last week that she told the lord above that he could take her house and home just to keep him safe, with her?

She knows she can't. She knows that he needs it. She knows a bit too much.

It's that place. That god forsaken bit of desert and jungle. Those people there. The air. The very aura that envelops the world in and of itself. It's the Makai, and it holds a power over him that she can no longer compete with. He'll wake up one morning, look at her with those eyes, those jumpy restless eyes, and he'll leave. There is no stopping it, but she'd be damned if she wasn't going to try.

The warmth he runs to. The blood pounding in his ears. The feel of flesh against flesh. She knows these are the things he goes to, but she also knows that she can't keep competing, because its not the flesh of a woman, or her smell that comes back in his sweat and blood year after year.

It's the feel of knuckles slamming into skin, his or his opponents. It's the thrum of power as it leaves his body. It's the knowledge that when he's in the ring, when he's squared off against someone, he's the strongest, the best, at something. It's the tournaments, it's the battles, it's the wars.

He tells stories of those times, when he's back with her, aching from wounds. His eyes light up and he tells of those who stand in the ring against him. Of their hulking forms and their supernatural strength, and she knows that he's just as powerful, because if he weren't he'd be dead. They would have ground him into the peat filled ground below the cement ring. Her eyes close and tears leak down her cheeks, as her mind begs and pleads for him to just stop. All he has to do is stop. But he won't, and she knows it.

For the first time in his life, the people are on their feet for him, roaring and screaming. Some are shouting jeers and others encouragement, but it doesn't matter, because they're yelling for him. He'll listen to them as they scream and his hands will ball into fists and his knuckles will bleed white in anticipation. His mind will wander toward the future, to what could be. To that final championship crown that he'll win if only he can make it through one more round, one more fight, one more battle.

She knows it's just not the fights that call him. No, it's the arena. The stadium. The fighters' clothes and their weapons and their armor. Their tools. Their horns and their markings. His markings. He misses them, she knows. He aches to let them roll freely to his skin and let the world see him for what he truly is, but he cannot, not when he's with her.

She can see his wounds healing over, the defeated glint leaving his eye for the hopeful, what if, and she digs her heels in and holds on tight. She kisses and hugs and touches, hoping that this time she'll be enough to help him to control the need. She knows she never will be, but she tries anyway. She can't live without him. She can't let him leave her forever, so she stays quiet, but each time he leaves, she dies.

And he'll throw that bag over his shoulder and glance over at her and smile that apologetic smile before telling her that he'll see her later and walking through the door. She'd scream and cry, swear and beg, but it'll do no good. She'll make herself the fool again, but she wants him just as much as he wants to go, so it doesn't matter.

Maybe, she wonders for the first time, maybe he's addicted to the pain. Maybe he needs that edge to prove he's alive. She lets more tears roll at the possibility because where at first it had been a comfort, now it's a sentence. The end. She knows he needs it now, and because he needs it, she has to let him have it. Her head hangs and her fists clench just as tightly as his.

There was one time, she recalls, when he was too injured to fight. His eyes were wide and hazy as he sensed out the battle, ki flaring and begging his body to join in the bloodshed. She'd thought he was going to destroy the house. He swore and prayed to gods she hadn't known existed. He claimed he'd give his life. He'd give his life for the thrill of it. After that, she'd started praying to those same gods, both to make him well enough to go, and to keep him home.

The children are still too young to ask where their father goes year after year, but the eldest is talking now, and it won't be long before he starts voicing the questions in his eyes. Where his daddy is. Why his momma's crying. What the red that stains the clothes in the back of the closet.

Her home is shattering. She met a man the other day. He asked her when her husband left her. She'd had a hard time defending him.

He comes back every year and tells her that he'll win it next time. In three years he'll be the kind of the Makai, or on an off year he'll be the one that can lay claim to the winner of the dark tournament. He's done it so many times she wonders if he forgets that he's won the second he lets the trophy fall down into the box of even more trophies. Maybe the real trophy is the thrill, the pain, the knowledge. She doesn't know and she'll never be able to understand.

~R.P.~

Rodeo – Garth Brooks

His eyes are cold and restless  
His wounds have almost healed

And she'd give half of Texas  
Just to change the way he feels

She knows his love's in Tulsa  
She knows he's gonna go

Well it ain't no woman flesh and blood  
It's that damned old rodeo

Well it's bulls and blood  
It's dust and mud  
It's the roar of a Sunday crowd  
It's the white in his knuckles  
The gold in the buckle  
He'll win the next go 'round

It's boots and chaps  
It's cowboy hats  
It's spurs and latigo  
It's the ropes and the reins  
And the joy and the pain  
And they call the thing rodeo

She does her best to hold him  
When his love comes to call  
But his need for it controls him  
And her back's against the wall  
And it's "So long girl, I'll see you."  
When it's time for him to go  
You know the woman wants her cowboy  
Like he wants his rodeo

Well, it's bulls and blood  
It's dust and mud  
It's the roar of a Sunday crowd  
It's the white in the knuckles

The gold in the buckle  
He'll win the next go 'round  
It's boots and chaps  
It's cowboy hats  
It's spurs and latigo  
It's the ropes and the reins  
And the joy and the pain

It'll drive a cowboy crazy  
It'll drive the man insane  
And he'll sell off everything he owns  
Just to pay to play her game

And a broken home and some broken bones  
Is all he'll have to show  
For all the years that he spent chasin'  
This dream they call rodeo

Well, it's bulls and blood  
It's dust and mud  
It's the roar of a Sunday crowd  
It's the white in them knuckles  
The gold in the buckle  
He'll win the next go 'round

It's boots and chaps  
It's cowboy hats  
It's spurs and latigo  
It's the ropes and the reins  
And the joy and the pain  
And they call the thing rodeo  
It's the broncs and the blood  
It's the steers and the mud  
And they call the thing rodeo  
And they call the thing rodeo


End file.
